


Lonesome Whistle, Blow My Blues Away

by nwhepcat



Category: Angel: the Series, Buffy the Vampire Slayer (TV)
Genre: Friendship, Gen, Grief/Mourning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-23
Updated: 2020-06-23
Packaged: 2021-03-04 05:15:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,621
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24878305
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nwhepcat/pseuds/nwhepcat
Summary: In the grip of grief, Faith goes searching for a remedy.
Comments: 3
Kudos: 19





	Lonesome Whistle, Blow My Blues Away

**Author's Note:**

> Lookie what I found, noodling around on my LJ. 
> 
> Written in July, 2006, for Vylit's Multifandom Johnny Cash ficathon with a prompt from"Folsom Prison Blues."
> 
> Thanks to Huzzlewhat for the late-night (and long-ago!) beta.
> 
> Johnny Cash singing "Folsom Prison Blues" at San Quentin can be seen [here](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wG0fS4DoGUc). (And yes, this place really exists in another state, except it's a place for beer and not the hard stuff.)

_You're shittin' me._

The place looks like an old farmhouse, except what would be yard is all dirt, with a handful of trucks and cars parked in a ragged row. The soft lowing of cows drifts on the mild summer breeze.

Who puts a bar in the middle of nowhere?

This is what she asked for, though. She'd asked Kennedy where she and Xander went sometimes to listen to country music. (There's the original odd couple -- not that they're a _couple_ \-- but weirdly enough they bonded over the shitkicker.)

Faith, however, doesn't want company. She wants to sit alone and get drunk and listen to some Johnny Cash on the juke.

***

She picked up the Cash thing from Tiny Jo, who ran the prison kitchen as free staff. Jo was a guy, and he weighed 473 pounds. The music in the kitchen was whatever Tiny Jo wanted, and most days he wanted Johnny Cash.

Most of the kitchen help hated Cash. Maybe it was the songs about crime and murder and guilt, because god knows _everyone_ in the joint was innocent but Faith. Or maybe it was what they said, that they hated listening to "old shit." It took a while, but something about his rough voice and rougher face spoke to her.

He'd never been locked up, but you couldn't tell it by Faith.

***

The inside of the bar is cluttered as a Houlihan's, but the crap on the walls is obviously a collection of stuff the owner loves, not a corporate "branding moment." It's a weird mix of biker, cowboy (speaking of branding moments) and music. On the wall over the corner booth, there's a shrine to Johnny Cash, and she settles herself there.

A crewcut guy in an apron comes over, and she asks for a bottle, a glass and a shitload of quarters. Eliminate the smalltalk, get down to it.

Faith walks over to the juke and starts feeding in change.

***

_I know I had it comin', I know I can't be free.  
But those people keep a-movin', and that's what tortures me._

That's one place she parts company with Cash. By the time she landed in the joint, she was relieved to be penned up. Her life was a runaway train, and the brakemen -- Rupert and Wes -- had just given her up, jumped to safety. The only way she could think of stopping was dying. She'd wanted it, but Angel denied her that easy out.

She remembers that alley in the rain.

Instead it's Angel who died in an alley.

***

Faith had gone to see it, though maybe she shouldn't have.

Most alleys smell like piss and garbage, but this one had stunk overwhelmingly of blood -- both human and demon (and yeah, the life she's led has taught her to recognize the smell of demon blood) -- and something sharp and smoky, brimstone, maybe.

There was no sign of him, unless he was part of the dust and soot swirling around the base of a Dumpster.

It was Gunn who'd thought to call her. Faith guesses hospitals must be like prisons in that way -- you've got nothing but time to think.

***

At first Faith had thought maybe Angel had talked about her, that Gunn knew what he'd meant to Faith. That maybe she'd even meant something to Angel beyond being the first of his we-help-the-fucked-up projects. But it turned out Gunn had thought she'd be a good person to break the news to Buffy. Or Giles, who could then pass it on to Buffy. Nobody from Angel's camp is ever speaking directly to Giles again, it looks like.

Faith pours herself another stiff drink, savors the burn as it goes down. Irish whiskey, in honor of Angel.

***

A guy in one of those snap-front cowboy shirts slides into the booth. "Whoever it is that's making you sad, I guarantee I can make you forget him," he says.

Faith can't be bothered with _Fuck off._ She just stares at Gene Autry until he gets it loud and clear ( _five by five_ ), and he scrambles out of the booth. Funny how much shorter reaction time is on that glare since she's been in the joint.

_I go out to a party and look for a little fun  
But I find a darkened corner, cause I still miss someone._

***

Alone is how she faces things.

That's not true of Buffy, she knows. She's always had her friends, her lover, her mom (before she died), her watcher. They help her deal.

Nobody's ever volunteered to help Faith deal, not since Angel. And he more helped her _face up_ than _deal_.

She's gotten so she prefers it this way. You don't need anyone, you don't break when you lose them.

She doesn't need anyone. She sure as fuck doesn't need some cowboy thinks he's God's gift. (If that's all God's offering her, he can take a hike too.)

She pours another.

***

Now Cash had a smile like a man thought he was God's gift, but he made you believe it.

One night Faith had been flicking through the channels when she came across some old clip from the 60s. There he was, wearing so much lace at wrists and throat that if he was anyone else in Nashville, they'd stomp the shit out of him.

He sang about cocaine binges and murder and the law, giving that reckless grin that made her throb down low.

She'd never expected the raw sex that just poured off him. Scary and dark and _damn_.

***

Angel never gave her that smile, dangerous and sexy. Buffy was the one girl in all the world who got that. She'd described it to Faith one night when they were on patrol, back in the day.

Faith had gotten her wicked smile bestowed on her by Angelus. The grin and the swagger as he tried to beat her down, then take everything else from her as well, everything she'd fought so hard for.

Bad with the good. That's the way her memory works. That's the way her life's been.

Bad with the good, and damn little of the good.

***

The Irish isn't doing shit for her. Goddamn slayer metabolism. She'd hoped to be happily numb by now.

The jukebox is working a helluva lot better. Unfortunately, without the happily numb part, it's just making her ache.

She pours herself another stiff one, as if that's the one that'll do the trick. She downs it and closes her eyes.

_We got married in a fever, hotter than a pepper sprout._

Problem with that song is, for a tune about a couple whose fire went out, it's beyond smokin'.

"I hate to see a lady drink alone," says a male voice.

Faith looks up to give this guy the same death glare the cowboy got. Instead she says, "Then you're fine, because I ain't no lady."

Harris doesn't wait for an invitation, just sets his beer down and then slides into the booth. "Kennedy told me you asked about this place. I thought I'd give you a little time, then see if you wanted some company."

"Dunno what I want."

"I'll sit until you decide, if that's okay. Kinda thirsty myself."

"Can't stop you."

He laughs. "I'm pretty sure you could." He settles in to drinking, quietly listening to the juke.

***

_I knelt down beside him and I listened  
Just to hear the words the dyin' fella said._

Faith moves out of the booth. "I'm steppin' out for a smoke."

"I'm pretty sure they won't care if--"

The screendoor slaps behind her and she steps off the wooden porch, rummaging for her cigarettes. The unfiltered smoke burns her eyes, and she blinks.

_Give my love to Rose, please won't you, mister?_

The screen creaks behind her, and this time she says it. "Fuck off."

"I've said that."

"Then you oughta--"

"Didn't mean it."

"Thought this shit would help. Booze and music."

"Yeah."

Harris keeps his distance. "Sometimes it does, sometimes not. What I found was, it's easier sometimes, talking in the dark."

Faith doesn't make any immediate effort to prove him right. He leans on the porch railing, waiting. At least he keeps his yap shut. Music filters out from the bar. Her quarters still at work.

"You know it just occurred to me," she says after a long while. "Dark, brooding man in black. Who's that sound like?"

"Yeah," he says softly.

"All about the evildoin' and the redemption, both of 'em. And both wicked sexy."

"I wouldn't know about that."

Faith laughs softly. "Don't worry about your manhood there, Harris. Ever hear that San Quentin album? Every damn one of those hardcases had wood for Johnny Cash, you can tell it."

"You're getting nothin' from me, copper."

"I tried to make him kill me. He wanted something else from me. Something harder." She sucks in a lungful of smoke. "Wasn't anything he didn't do himself, every fucking day."

"I know," he says quietly. Faith's throat tightens.

The sound of her breathing betrays her, and Harris steps just close enough to touch her shoulder.

"Don't. I'd just as likely punch you."

"I can take it," he says. She looks up at Harris, the eyepatch. Yeah. She'd say so.

It's this weird form of permission that breaks her. As she sucks in a shuddering breath, his arms surround her. They're a damn sight stronger than when she had him years ago. _He's_ a damn sight stronger.

It's no sobfest -- she hasn't done that since _that_ alley. Harris doesn't _shhhhh_ her, or murmur meaningless comfort. He just holds her, silent as her tears.

They stay that way until someone flips on the bathroom light inside, casting a golden square of light over them.


End file.
